


Claim

by Out_Of_Custody



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (damnit), 8x02 smut, 8x04 didnt break my heart, F/M, Possessiveness, a little fluff at the end, fuck that, i'm in denial, maybe slight dub-con, nope - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 08:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18735745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Out_Of_Custody/pseuds/Out_Of_Custody
Summary: He knows he‘s hers – always has been, from the moment they‘d met and the moment he’s discovered her for her true self.





	Claim

He knows he‘s hers – always has been, from the moment they‘d met and the moment he’s discovered her for her true self. He knows he’s hers even when they drag him away from her, sell him to the Red Woman and tear him away from her side (from her life; she’s offered so much more than he could ever have accepted from a High Born – he is a Smith for Seven’s Sakes, the lowest of bastards of Flea Bottom; he could not take her up on her offer; despite the fact that it had been everything he’d ever could have dreamed).

When she steps between The Hound and him – and the man has to be twice her size, weight, width – she does it with a chill that the warrior before him recognizes; handles, roughly as he is used to handling his own coldness within. She doesn’t back down from the bark of a hound. Not when she is the wolf that is prowling the dense forests surrounding Winterfell (he’s heard the howls and yowls and yips; he remembers her confession about Nymeria; he knows, _knows_ in the heart of his hearts that this is her).

For days he doesn’t quite believe what he sees.

Tries to fit the memory he has of her (the one he’s put on a pedestal, shiny and high above him, where he could watch her shine with purity and brightness that was never going to be for a forge-dirty, smithing bastard no matter his blood) with the picture she makes now and grapples with the jarring discrepancy. He wants to get closer to her – but he only ever knew how to get close to Arry; only ever truly knew a girl in a boy’s face; only ever knew a small soul. She is none of that now. And he doesn’t know how to get close.

When she comes for him the night Before, he knows he will not deny her.

 

–

 

He is gentle with her in a way people have not been for a long while and she bucks against the sensation it evokes in her – the emotion rankles like the sweet perfumes she’s stumbled over in Sansa’s old room (even her sister had wrinkled her nose at them) and she bares her teeth against it, sinks them in his shoulder.

It does nothing to dissuade him from his course; does not make his ministrations between her legs falter, where he is stroking her, touching a part of her she hasn’t known _others_ could touch and her mind whitens out when he finds it. She keens and he repeats the action, focusses with that beautiful determination she knows from when he works on metal. As if to make a weapon sing with precise blows, he aims again and again, gently, softly, determindedly, lips against hers, panting his pursuit. Her vision blurs. Her eyes are half-closed and she knows why she chose him. She would not trust another with herself like this. Bare. Vulnerable. Another sound bubbles up her throat, louder this time. He licks it right out of her and his other hand raises, two fingers at the peak of her breasts where he plucks and suddenly--

She floods with the wave of _sensation_ he pours through her, cries in harmony with the ringing in her ears, clutches at his shoulders (so much larger than her, always so much taller, so much stronger) and buries her sounds in the corded muscle of his neck, grips his hair, ruts against his fingers, chases the pleasure.

It is a while before the hazy cloud of the experience leaves her and even when she plucks his fingers from him, licks them free of her own juices, she is not entirely _there_ again. But her boldness stills him and she takes the moment; moves. Dances over the rigidity between his legs, tantalizes herself and him as she coats it in the same essence she licks clean from his fingers and even before he can say whatever words are trying to pass his lips – she sinks down and _takes him_.

He is hers. He has always been. And she is not allowing him to deny her a second time (not this time; he can run any other time, but not now).

She yips at the sense of discomfort, but pushes him back down by the shoulders – rough but cautious, brushing her fingers over him afterwards – when he tries to sit up. He allows her, _gives_ to her when she moves, clutches at her, fingers digging into thighs and she thinks _Yes._

She knows what’s on the line. Knows that if any of the uptight Lords and Ladies would hear of her lying with a Bastard Boy her reputation would never be the same. And she thinks _Good –_ because she has never wanted to be a political tool and she will give her maidenhead away to only one. And that is the one who belongs to her; whose throat bends backwards with a hoarse exhale as she thinks her teeth there, _marks him_. He is hers. And as she ruts down against him, she feels the truth of it; knows that whatever has come before is erased in the face of this act.

“Arya...”

Their positions should be reversed. It should be her clutching at his arms, palming his chest from underneath him but… He arches so beautifully when she swivels her hips the way she’s seen the Bravoosi Market Dancers do, when she marks the skin over his heart with a purplish bruise and the indents of her teeth.

“Mine”

She rises above him, straight and regal and listens to his hiss when she finds that which pleases her most and takes it from him. And he offers it to her. Moving just so, looking for her cues. For her lead. Giving what she needs (what he knows she aches for without so many words) and when the wave crashes over her a second time, she allows it to take her, lets it sweep her under and falls against his chest.

Sweat cools on her skin and he is still so hot under her, still pent up, still not--

A growl rises in her throat when she moves again, sits up, this time with more intent. She’s watching him when she moves her fingers to his nipples, plucks them, hums deeply at the surprised sound that comes from him. And then moves forward, braces her lower arms at the side of his face and tilts her pelvis just _so_ and falls into his lips.

It’s an invitation he doesn’t refuse. His fingers dig into her hips that make her hope for bruises as he enters her again and again and again until--

“No.”

She sinks back down with a growl and a decisive snap of her hips; takes again what he has sought to take from her and repeats his frantic pace with glowing, greedy eyes. This is hers. He is hers. And she will have all of him.

“Arry-- Arya-- Ar--”

“ _Mine.”_

And this time she squeezes, muscles she has only just discovered but it has the desired effect and before he can stop himself, he stumbles over the brink, gets washed over by the same crest that has taken her and she feels it, revels in it, basks in it – his eyes open, tiny, blurred, slits – and she purrs low in her throat, head tilting backwards as she milks him with soft undulations of her hips.

When he sits up this time, she doesn’t deny him, takes his kiss with the same ferocity that he bestows unto her and it’s only when he turns them that she realizes that he has not _waned_ as she’s expected him to. Instead, he slips out, just as rigid as before when his mouth closes over her nipple and it’s her who arches, welcomes the thrum of the sea he stokes within her. His hands are large and hot, rough even against her scars but he doesn’t enter her.

“Why’d you do that?”, he asks her when he takes his mouth off her – his voice is thin, a whisper, incredulous and unsure, masked by something akin to anger.

“You’re mine”, she snarls at him, tries to buck up but realizes with a jolt that he can easily hold her down with his superior strength and weight and height. “I have all of you, Gendry Waters. It belongs to me.”

“Wolf”, he growls into the skin of her breast when he nips at her this time and before she can answer, he’s flipped her, pulls her onto all fours and drapes over her in a way she’s seen wolves do and knows _Yes._ Knows when he slips into her again that he _is_ hers. All hers. Only hers – no one else’s.

His teeth bite into her shoulder when his hips snap into hers this time. She gives in to the undulations of the crest, moves with him and takes him in, knows that he has given over – knows that he will never be apart from her again.

“Damn it, I was yours from the start. There was no need-”

She bucks against him, takes him deeper than he’s been before, mewls at the sensation and the deep, pleasant ache the motion evokes in her. He notices, repeats the action, strokes her deeper – punches the quiet sounds out of her.

“You’re mine.”, she whispers again, allows the drape of his body over hers. Takes the fingers he slips between hers and holds. “Always, mine.” It’s as far as her confession will go.

He makes an almost wounded sound behind her, but holds her tighter – her hips _will_ bruise (she’s looking forward to it) – and pushes deeper, worries his bite on her shoulder and when the crest takes them this time, he stays with her, warms her from the inside and she doesn’t mind when he retreats from her and she feels their combined wetness running down her thighs.

She is shaky and sore and limp when he pulls her into his embrace.

 

–

 

He finds her in The Morning. Slumped over the silver-furred mass of a wolf that he knows to be Nymeria without having to be told – neither reacts when he comes closer, leans his javelin against a tree-stump and extends his hand to the wolf in greeting. His hand stays on his arm so he takes it as a sign of acceptance and approaches once more.

She is small when he collects her against his chest, wounded and ice-burnt around her throat, when he pulls her under the fur of his cloak and the wolf settles closer to them, around them. She’s still breathing and for now that’s all she has to do for him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 8x04 didn't happen; shut up; I'm not crying (We were so close, but no)


End file.
